


Sticky Fingers

by kathkin



Series: A Few Notes in the Song of Creation (a Lord of the Rings Dæmon AU) [17]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Gen, I am going to warn you now this may punch you in the gut in chapter 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 13:44:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16285667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathkin/pseuds/kathkin
Summary: When one spent much of one’s time in the company of elves and such, one could easily be taken off-guard by the speed with which hobbits and such sprouted up into adulthood.In which Pippin goes through changes and Gandalf reflects.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> a) Wikipedia on [dæmons](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D%C3%A6mon_\(His_Dark_Materials\)).
> 
> b) [Ground rules for this AU](http://penny-anna.tumblr.com/post/174266827343/ground-rules-for-d%C3%A6mon-au).
> 
> c) See end notes for dæmon key!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Gandalf had encountered a great many hobbits of the years. It was quite hard for any hobbit to have a quality he’d find startling. He’d encountered the tallest and shortest and fattest and bravest and cleverest of hobbits. But he had never, in all the years he’d been visiting the Shire, laid eyes on a hobbit quite so impressively sticky._

Hobbits were not by any means the only people in Middle Earth who would make a party last an entire day and night. But if one was _going_ to attend a day-and-night long party, the Shire was the place to do it. Hobbits didn’t stand on ceremony, when it came to parties.

Once the initial pleasantries had been passed, they were content to enjoy many hours of chaotic revelry. If one wanted to remove oneself for a few moments of quiet reflection, one could generally do so and be relatively sure one would not be disturbed by festive ritual or social obligation.

And so he sat, quietly, at the edge of the party field, and reflected in relative peace.

A soft _flump_ on the chair beside him alerted him to the fact that he was no longer alone. He looked down at the hobbit beside him – and stared.

Gandalf had encountered a great many hobbits of the years. It was quite hard for any hobbit to have a quality he’d find startling. He’d encountered the tallest and shortest and fattest and bravest and cleverest of hobbits. But he had never, in all the years he’d been visiting the Shire, laid eyes on a hobbit quite so _impressively_ sticky.

The little hobbit sitting on the chair next to him, swinging his legs as if he hadn’t a care in the world, was positively filthy with jam and buttercream icing. He had jam in his hair and on his ears. He had buttercream smeared on his knees. His dæmon, perched upon the back of the chair in the shape of a squirrel, had jam in her tail. And he was looking up at Gandalf with bright-eyed curiosity, either oblivious to or – more likely – not caring about the jam dripping off his chin onto his lap.

Gandalf found himself trapped between disgust, amusement, and awe. It was mesmerising. He couldn’t take his eyes away. He said, “good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” said the little hobbit. Taking his hands from his lap, he began to lick the – somewhat fluffy – jam from his palms. “I’m Peregrin Took,” he said between licks. “How old are you?”

“How old am I?” said Gandalf.

The hobbit stuck his whole hand into his mouth and sucked. “Yes,” squeaked his dæmon, flitting into a robin.

“Well,” said Gandalf. “How old do you think I am?”

Peregrin sucked thoughtfully. In his lap, his dæmon changed her shape several more times before electing to be a large, shiny beetle. He took his hand from his mouth and said, “at _least_ a hundred and twelve.”

“Is that so?” said Gandalf.

“Yes,” said Peregrin Took.

“Then I must be at least as old as that,” said Gandalf, and the little hobbit nodded as if that was precisely what he’d expected to hear. “May I ask _you_ a question?”

“Yes,” said Peregrin.

Gandalf leaned a little closer, and said, “how did you get so sticky?”

Peregrin looked over his shoulder, in the direction of the party and authority. He beckoned Gandalf still closer with one wet, jammy hand. He said, “ _cake_.”

“Did you,” said Gandalf, “ _bathe_ in the cake?” Very sagely, Peregrin nodded. “I see.”

Peregrin gave his hands one last lick and then, satisfied with their highly dubious state of cleanliness, he stood up on his chair, reached out, and planted one slippery hand firmly upon Gandalf’s beard.

As a rule, he was fond of infants. They were rather like soft, hairless little monkeys and often charming. He was fonder still of children old enough to talk with properly, who by and large were fascinating conversationalists. He found the stage in between, children old enough to walk and talk but not yet old enough to understand that they shouldn’t bathe in cake and then put their sticky fingers into a wizard’s beard, in turns tedious, frustrating, and alarming.

Gently, he extricated Peregrin’s hand from his beard. Peregrin put it straight back. Gandalf removed it again, this time saying, “ _no_.”

Peregrin sat back down in his chair with a jolt. His dæmon, now in the shape of a rat, began to diligently lick the jam off his ear. He said, “why d’you have a beard?”

“Because I do,” said Gandalf. He dug about in his pocket, and produced a piece of the hard treacle toffee he kept for such occasions. “Here,” he said, handing it to the little hobbit.

Peregrin looked at the toffee. He looked up at Gandalf, his eyes wide and open with adoration. It was the look of one who had fallen in love at first sight. The look of one who had discovered the fountain of youth. The look of a tiny hobbit who was thinking, _I have found a magical, possibly infinitely replenishing, source of treacle toffee_.

“Eat up, there’s a good lad,” said Gandalf. He tousled the boy’s hair and hastily got up.

He thought – dearly hoped – he had managed to lose the little hobbit in the crowd of other, larger hobbits. He had just settled himself down at a table with a cup of tea when beside him there was a soft fumbling. Onto the table hopped a pigeon-shaped dæmon. A moment later there was her hobbit. He rested his chin on the table top and gazed up at Gandalf with wonder.

His mouth, of course, was effectively gummed shut. Hard toffee tended to have that affect on little mouths. It was a very effective strategy for quieting young dwarves and human children; somewhat less effective with young hobbits, who were sometimes canny enough to recognise that they had two mouths to talk with.

“Are you a real wizard?” squeaked Peregrin’s dæmon.

“Yes I am,” said Gandalf, stirring his tea.

Peregrin raised his head from the tablecloth. With some considerable effort, he swallowed the toffee. He said, “can you turn my sister ‘Vinca into a frog?”

“ _Please_ ,” said his dæmon to him.

“Please,” he added.

“And why should I do that?” said Gandalf.

“I think it would be very funny,” said Peregrin, with the air of one who has given much thought to a problem. “And, she already looks like a frog, so it wouldn’t be hard.” His dæmon, as if in demonstration, turned into a frog.

Gandalf set down his spoon. “Young Master Took,” he said. “ _If_ I were to have the ability to turn persons into frogs – which I may or may not possess – then I am sure you’ll appreciate that, naturally, I would only use said ability against evildoers. To do otherwise would be a terrible abuse of my wizardly powers, not to mention wasteful. Do you understand?”

Peregrin nodded. Then he said, “’Vinca’s evil.”

“I doubt that very much,” said Gandalf.

“She is,” said Peregrin. “An evildoer. Please turn her into a frog, thank you, sir.”

“Master Took,” said Gandalf, laying a hand on the less sticky of the little boy’s shoulders, “I shall not, under _any_ circumstances, turn your sister into a frog. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” said Peregrin. He laid his chin upon the table again. “May I have another toffee?”

“ _Please_ ,” hissed his dæmon, now a snake.

“May I have another toffee, _please_ ,” said Peregrin.

“No,” said Gandalf. He sipped his tea.

His dæmon changed into a rabbit, pricked up her ears, and said, “why not?”

“Because I think you’re both sticky enough to be getting on with,” said Gandalf.

“Ah,” said Peregrin. “I understand.”

Gandalf attended to his tea, which he had been looking forward to enjoying. It was _possible_ that if studiously ignored, the little hobbit would realise that no toffees or magic were forthcoming, and leave. And indeed, there passed a refreshingly quiet few moments.

He felt a tugging at his robe. Looking down, he saw a sticky little arm buried to the elbow in his pocket. He met Peregrin’s eyes, and said nothing. Peregrin stared back, not the slightly hint of guilt evident in his expression. Slowly, he withdrew his hand. Clasped in it were at least half a dozen treacle toffees.

“Now, you put those back,” said Gandalf.

Peregrin looked at the toffees. He looked at Gandalf. Eye contact firmly maintained, he shoved the whole gluey handful into his mouth and sat with proudly bulging cheeks.

Most young hobbits, in Gandalf’s experience, were at least a _little_ afraid of him. Even those who didn’t understand who he was found his height intimidating and a number had confessed to being frightened of his hat. He couldn’t help but be impressed by this one’s nerve. He was a touch curious to see what he meant to do next.

Peregrin stuck his hand back into Gandalf’s pocket. “Don’t you dare,” said Gandalf. Peregrin merely worked his hand deeper – and very slowly, drew out Gandalf’s pipe.

“Put that back,” said Gandalf. Peregrin looked at the pipe in his hand. He looked at Gandalf. He chewed noisily upon his mouthful of toffee. “ _Put. It. Back_ ,” said Gandalf in dark tones.

Peregrin put the end of the pipe into his sticky mouth and lounged back in his chair.

“Take it out of your mouth,” said Gandalf. Peregrin did nothing of the sort. His dæmon was watching him with bright crow-eyes and saying nothing to dissuade him from his current course of action.

Gandalf had heard it said that a rapidly-changing dæmon indicated a bright and inquiring mind. In this instance, the old adage was proving to be either entirely correct or utterly false. He couldn’t say.

He took ahold of his pipe and tried to lever it out of the boy’s grip. Unfortunately the stickiness of Peregrin’s little fingers was giving him something of an advantage. He pulled the pipe up and away but the boy stood up on his chair and held on tight.

“Let go,” said Gandalf.

Peregrin shook his head and did his best to grin around the toffee.

“Let go, or I shall turn _you_ into a frog,” said Gandalf. The little hobbit’s eyes lit up in a manner that left not doubt that there was nothing he wanted more than to experience life as an amphibian.

With a good yank, he got his pipe out of Peregrin’s sticky grip, but as he went to put it safely into his other pocket the little hobbit climbed fully into his lap and made another grab for it. “I mean it!” said Gandalf, holding it out of his reach. “Frog!”

“ _Frog_!” said Peregrin’s dæmon as he squirmed stickily and jam-scented in Gandalf’s lap. She changed into a monkey and rolled about on the table, howling with laughter.

It was then that with a cry of, “hey!” someone came to his rescue.

Another, somewhat larger, hobbit child dragged Peregrin off him and held him squirming, his arms and legs wheeling through the air like the limbs of an upturned tortoise. A beagle-shaped dæmon trotted about the older boy’s feet, with the soft, blurred quality of the unsettled. Gandalf took in the boy’s Tookish nose and thought, _older brother_.

“Is my cousin bothering you?” said the older boy, laughing, and Gandalf revised his opinion. To Peregrin he said, “what have you got in your mouth?”

“Mmrphphrgh,” said Peregrin.

“Toffee,” said his dæmon.

“I’m _terribly_ sorry,” said the older boy, struggling to keep a hold of his little cousin. “What’s he been getting up to this time?”

“Bathing in cake, apparently,” said Gandalf.

“He does that,” said the older boy. He gave his cousin a shake. “You mustn’t bother Gandalf. He’s a wizard. You’re lucky I don’t tell your mother.”

“And where might I find his mother?” inquired Gandalf.

“Oh,” said the older boy airily. “She’s around somewhere.”

“I should rather like a word with her,” said Gandalf. “Your cousin has been pickpocketing me, young Master Took, not to mention –”

“Brandybuck,” said the older boy.

“Pardon me?” said Gandalf.

“I’m a young Master Brandybuck, not a Master Took,” said the boy. He hefted his cousin, and said to him, “shall I tell Gandalf whose son you are?”

Peregrin’s eyes went wide. He shook his head frantically.

“I think I shall,” said Master Brandybuck. “I’m sure your father would be de _lighted_ to hear about this.”

“Mmmph,” said Peregrin, working his mouth around the toffee as if contemplating spitting it out.

Gandalf pointed at his mouth. “Don’t you _dare_ waste that toffee, young master hobbit.”

“Hm,” said Peregrin in protest.

“Now,” said Gandalf. “Who are his parents?” Though he had been doing some hobbit arithmetic, and he thought perhaps he could guess.

Master Brandybuck looked at his little cousin. His cousin looked back at him balefully. “This,” he said, giving the boy a shake, “is Paladin Took’s only son, and he’s going indoors.” He slung the little boy over his shoulder and saying, “enjoy the party. Good afternoon,” carted him squirming away.

With a sigh, Gandalf took up his tea. “Hobbits,” he remarked to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dæmons in this chapter:
> 
>  **Merry and Celandine ("Grumpy"):** unsettled.  
>  **Pippin and Windflower:** unsettled.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Evidently this was how Peregrin did things. **We’ve had a round of insulting each other, now we’re friends, let’s have a smoke.** And the worst of it? It was, somehow, working._

He had banged on the door of Bag End a full three times and still no-one was answering. As he knocked upon the door for the fourth time, he was all set to give Frodo a piece of his mind. But then with a scurrying of feet the door at last opened and he was greeted by an entirely different hobbit.

A rushed and slightly rumpled hobbit with an unbuttoned waistcoat, a fox-dæmon, and distinctly Tookish profile. By the look upon his face, he was as startled to see Gandalf as Gandalf was to see him. Leaning heavily on the door, he said, “good morning, sir.”

“Good morning,” said Gandalf. “I _was_ looking for Frodo Baggins.”

“Out, I’m afraid,” said the hobbit. “He’ll be back for lunch – probably – do come in – let me take your hat,” he said, ushering Gandalf into the hall.

Something about his face was naggingly familiar. But Gandalf had met a great many hobbits over the years and they all looked much alike, especially Bilbo and Frodo’s gentlehobbit cousins. He couldn’t put a name to that face. When in doubt he could often go by the dæmon, but he couldn’t put a name to her either.

“Have we met?” he said.

“Oh, probably,” said the hobbit. “Meriadoc-and-Celandine Brandybuck, at your service,” he said, and dipped a bow. “Would you like some tea? We’re in the parlour.” He hung Gandalf’s hat unsteadily upon a hook and scurried away, his dæmon scampering at his heels.

He hadn’t planned on staying for lunch. As ever he had business to attend to elsewhere. But he ought to see Frodo and the comforts of Bag End had their allure. He went into the parlour, and into a gentle cloud of pipe smoke.

Sprawled comfortably on the couch was another, even younger hobbit. In one hand he held his pipe. With the other he was scratching his dæmon, draped across his lap and the couch in the shape of a large and lanky dog, behind the ears. “Merry, if that’s Lobelia again, just tell her Frodo’s dead,” he said, glancing at the door. Then he looked properly, and hastily sat up straighter. “Oh, good _morning_ , Gandalf,” he said in the kind of sweet and charming tones young hobbits usually saved for their schoolmasters.

 _That_ face Gandalf placed at once. He had seen it before, and although it had been smaller, rounder, and covered in jam, he’d know it anywhere. “You!”

“Me?” said the hobbit.

“Peregrin Took,” said Gandalf.

At that, a smile spread across Peregrin’s face. “You remember me,” he said.

“You made an impression,” said Gandalf.

“ _Did_ I?” Peregrin sat up properly, or tried to. His dæmon shifted into a cat and crawled fully into his lap. “Frodo’s down in the village, something something business or something, back for lunch. Do sit down.” He put his pipe back into his mouth.

When one spent much of one’s time in the company of elves and such, one could easily be taken off-guard by the speed with which hobbits and such sprouted up into adulthood. The short handful of years since Gandalf had first met him had changed Peregrin from a sticky-fingered semi-infant into a stringy sort of adolescent.

He sat down on the other side of the parlour and said, “and what are you doing?”

Peregrin took his pipe from his mouth and looked at it. “Smoking,” he said.

“I mean here in Bag End,” said Gandalf. “Fogging up the parlour.”

“Well,” said Peregrin, still struggling to find a proper sitting position with his dæmon in the way. “We are _not_ day drinking in our cousin’s house while he’s out. We wouldn’t do a thing like that. We’re good boys.” He retrieved the cup perched unsteadily on the arm of the couch, and drank.

“It’s barely noon,” said Gandalf in withering tones.

“And I’m sober!” said Peregrin. “What’s your point?” His dæmon, presently kneading his thigh, said something quietly. “Shush, you, he doesn’t need to know that.”

“Are you sure you’re old enough to be drinking that?” said Gandalf, for by the smell coming from that cup they’d been at the liquor cabinet.

“Excuse me!” exclaimed Pippin, quite scandalised. “For your information, I am very nearly almost of age.”

“Ah, of course,” said Gandalf gravely. “I was forgetting. Hobbits grow like weeds.”

“Oh, is _that_ how it is?” said Peregrin. “Well, while we’re on the subject, you’re as ugly as ever.” So saying, in one swift movement he swung his legs off the couch, sat up, and snatched the pipeweed tin from the table, all without spilling his drink. “Old Toby? It’s the good stuff, we took it from Frodo’s personal supply.”

“I see you’re as sticky-fingered as ever,” said Gandalf, eying the tin. “One of these days you’re going to get yourself into a lot of trouble, Peregrin Took, and I hope I’m there to see it.”

“Oh, probably,” said Peregrin brightly. “And it’s Pippin, to my friends. This is Windflower. Is that a no on the Old Toby? More for me if so.”

Evidently, Gandalf realised, this was how Peregrin did things. _We’ve had a round of insulting each other, now we’re friends, let’s have a smoke._ And the worst of it? It was, somehow, working.

“Go on,” he said, and Pippin duly tossed the pipeweed tin across the parlour.

At that moment, the other hobbit shouldered his way back into the parlour with the tea. “I see you’ve met my cousin,” he said in airy tones, putting the haphazardly set tea tray down on the table.

“He remembers me, Merry,” said Pippin.

“Ohh, no,” said Merry. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could say he’s improved over the years but I think he’s got worse.”

“How dare you,” said Pippin around his pipe. “I was an adorable child. Everyone says so.”

“You were an embarrassment to everyone around you,” said Merry. To Gandalf he said, “stop laughing. I’m trying to apologise.”

“I _thought_ I recognised you,” said Gandalf. “I see you’ve settled – and you haven’t,” he said to each of them in turn.

Merry looked down at his dæmon as if faintly embarrassed that she’d been noticed. “Um. Yes,” he said.

“Settling is for tedious people with no imagination,” said Pippin.

Gandalf ignored him. “Does Frodo know you’re in his house?” he said to Merry.

“I’ve been here all week,” said Merry. He waved a hand vaguely at his cousin. “Pippin might be a surprise.”

“A pleasant surprise,” said Pippin.

“Unlikely,” said Gandalf.

“I’m a joy and a delight,” said Pippin. “And Frodo’s favourite. Shush,” he said to his dæmon, though Gandalf hadn’t heard her speak.

“I’ll pour the tea,” said Merry, and went about pouring the tea with the air of one performing a complex task that required all his co-ordination.

“You’re drunk,” Gandalf observed.

“Absolutely not,” said Merry. “It’s not even noon. What do you take me for.”

“A drunk hobbit,” said Gandalf.

“Lies,” said Merry. “Slander. I’m sober as a judge.” He spilled the milk. “Whoops!” With a bashful smile, he offered Gandalf a mildly dribbling cup of tea. “There.”

“An excellent host,” said Pippin, who was now sprawled more or less upside down on the couch. “A sober host.”

Standing back from the table, Merry wiped his wet hands on his waistcoat – and looking out the parlour window cried, “he’s back!” 

Marching across the room he hauled his cousin off the couch. “Quick, Pip, like we planned,” he said, and manhandled Pippin, pipe and drink and all, across the parlour into the cupboard, which he shut. Turning to Gandalf he said, “shush!” and raced from the room.

Gandalf sat upon his chair, puffing upon his pipe of pilfered Old Toby, and came to a decision. He went to the cupboard and hauled Pippin out by his collar. “How do you do,” said Pippin with a sheepish grin. Gandalf rolled his eyes, and gave him a shove in the direction of the couch.

“As you were,” he said.

Just as they were settled, in came Merry and Frodo. “Here’s Gandalf,” said Merry, and then with an expression of mild panic, “and Pippin! What a surprise. What’s he doing here. Must’ve come in through the window.”

“Good morning, Gandalf,” said Frodo. “Sorry I missed you. Can I get you anything?”

“No – no, I’ve been attended to,” said Gandalf. In point of fact the tea was only semi-drinkable but he wasn’t about to say so.

“Oh, good,” said Frodo. “Pippin, when did you get here?”

“After you left and before Gandalf arrived,” said Pippin.

“Well, I guessed _that_ much,” said Frodo. “Have you been in the liquor cabinet again?”

“No,” Pippin lied.

“Are you drunk?” said Frodo. Pippin pulled a face, and waggled his hand as if to say _so-so_. “Good grief. Why would you – I’m starting lunch,” said Frodo, and taking Merry by the arm he dragged him in the direction of the kitchen.

“Merry’s drunker than I am!” Pippin called after him. “He’s just better at hiding it!”

There was a shambling of feet, and Frodo’s head appeared in the doorway, Gentian fluttering into view a moment later. “Is that my Old Toby?” he said, pointing at Pippin.

Pippin looked at his pipe. “No.”

“You know I’m saving it,” said Frodo. “You better not be smoking it, Pippin, I mean it.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” said Pippin with the most innocent of facial expressions. “What do you take me for.”

Frodo looked to Gandalf. Gandalf shrugged. “I’m watching you,” Frodo said to Pippin, and left the room. Gentian lingered in the doorway a moment as if in demonstration, and then with a barely audible _hm_ followed Frodo.

“Thanks,” said Pippin to Gandalf, lounging back on the couch, toying with his dæmon’s tail.

“It _is_ the good stuff,” said Gandalf. “He’ll notice sooner or later.”

“By then I shall have vanished into the night,” said Pippin. “Like a pipe-smoking phantom. He’ll never catch me.” He blew smoke at the ceiling.

Gandalf was beginning, he thought, to understand what kind of hobbit Peregrin Took was. The kind of hobbit who was smart as a whip when it came to things he cared about, and utterly useless when it came to anything else. It was a variety of hobbit the Tooks were especially prone to producing, and a variety that caused him endless frustration.

He said, “aren’t you a little old not to be settled?”

Pippin blew still more smoke at the ceiling. His dæmon raised her head, flicked her ears, and said, “that’s a _very_ personal remark.” 

Which Gandalf supposed it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dæmons in this chapter:
> 
>  **Pippin and Windflower:** unsettled.  
>  **Merry and Celandine ("Grumpy"):** [red fox](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Fox_-_British_Wildlife_Centre_\(17429406401\).jpg).  
>  **Frodo and Gentian:** [pale tussock moth](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Calliteara_pudibunda#/media/File:Calliteara_pudibunda.jpg).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He had been relieved, when he saw that Windflower had settled. Relieved, that she’d taken a shape that seemed true to her nature._

Unsettled dæmons, to the eyes of those who could see such things, had a soft and blurred quality, a lightness, more of an image painted upon the air than a real creature. He had rarely witnessed the strange and profound moment when they changed, or rather ceased to change, for good.

“I’d go easy on that leg if I were you.”

Most dæmons of the Shire had the good fortune to be able to settle in their own time, peaceably, growing into their shapes like plants. Most dæmons of the Shire avoided the grimmer fate of being wrenched and pressed into shape as meat in a grinder.

He had seen it at once. He had seen it coming well before Pippin did. He had wondered then, as he did now, what shape Pippin’s dæmon might have taken if they’d been left to grow up in peace in the Shire. He had seen young dæmons forced into settling too soon, forced into shapes they should never have taken, so many times before.

Perched on the edge of his oversized bed, Pippin worked his leg back and forth and grimaced. “Strider says it won’t be the same,” he said. “But so long as I can walk on it I don’t see that it matters.” He looked up at Gandalf and smiled, meaning it.

Deep down, all hobbits – even the most spoilt and indolent – were the most practical of people. It was a trait he only grew fonder of, with time.

But he did not know if Pippin quite understood what that meant, _it won’t be the same_.

He had known all along that none of his hobbit friends knew the danger they were going into, and none more so than Pippin. He had seen it again and again in Pippin’s open, careless face. He wondered now if he might have been guilty of something of that same naivety himself.

Had he known from the outset just how deeply Pippin and Frodo and the others would be damaged by what they’d chosen for themselves – would he have tried to stop them? He didn’t know. A finger – the use of a leg – a few shreds of sanity – such small things, and such small people. Grains of sand, against the weight of the world.

He said, “how’s settled life treating you?”

“Hm?” Pippin looked up at him. “I wasn’t sure you’d noticed,” he said, sincerely humble, as if such things were beneath his notice.

“Of course I noticed.”

Pippin looked at Windflower, perched upon his shoulder. “It’s not so bad,” he said.

“It vexes me,” said Windflower. “I miss being big.”

“I, for one,” said Gandalf gravely, “am _very_ glad you no longer have the freedom to be as large as you choose.”

“Ha,” said Windflower without a trace of humour. Spreading her wings, she coasted from Pippin’s shoulder to the ground, and there sat expectantly.

“It is not _quite_ so tedious as I expected,” said Pippin. With a sigh, he braced his hands against the mattress, and said, “alright.”

Gingerly, he lowered his feet to the floor.

He had thought that Pippin might wait until Merry came back to try this. But then he realised that it was precisely because Merry had gone away that Pippin was getting up.

There he stood, his feet on the ground, leaning heavily against the bed. He breathed deep once again, took half a step – and as he put his weight on his left leg his face creased with pain, and he stumbled.

“Careful,” said Gandalf, taking his arm, steadying him.

“I’m alright,” said Pippin. “I can do it. I’m alright.” He took another step, and found his footing, however shaky. He shot Gandalf a smile. “It’s not so bad.” He shrugged off Gandalf’s steadying arm and took another step.

His leg gave out.

“Fool of a Took,” said Gandalf. “Idiot child. Not so fast. Here.”

“Put me down,” Pippin protested as he was hefted back onto the bed. “Put me _down_ – oof.” There he sat, breathless and irritable and, Gandalf thought, in more pain than he was letting on.

He fetched Pippin a cup of water, and sat quietly while he drank it and got back his breath.

“May I ask you a question?” he said once Pippin’s breathing had slowed.

Pippin wiped his mouth. “I suppose,” he said. Windflower had come to perch on his knee, and he ran a hand down her little back.

“If you had known what was coming,” said Gandalf. “Would you have stayed in Rivendell?”

Whatever question Pippin had anticipated, by the look on his face that wasn’t it, or indeed anything like it. He stared at Gandalf in astonishment. He said, “well, if I’d known what was coming I’d have done a few things differently.”

“But would you still have come?” Gandalf persisted. He was afraid of the answer. But now that he’d asked, he had to hear it.

“I don’t know.” Pippin looked at his hands. “Probably. Yes. Why?”

“I’m curious by nature,” said Gandalf.

“I’m going to lie down now,” said Pippin, wriggling back on the bed.

He had been relieved, when he saw that Windflower had settled. Relieved, that she’d taken a shape that seemed true to her nature.

A swish of cloth and in a blur of reddish fur Grumpy clambered onto the bed. She nosed at Windflower, and said to Pippin, “why are you dressed?”

“I wanted to feel like a hobbit,” said Pippin. To Merry, coming in behind her, he said, “Merry, Gandalf’s been bullying me in my invalid state. He’s a horrible old man. Tell him, Merry.”

Merry turned theatrically to Gandalf, and said, “Pippin says you’re a horrible old man.”

“I heard,” said Gandalf.

Merry turned back to Pippin. “Gandalf says he heard.”

“I see,” said Pippin. “Tell him again to be sure.”

“Pippin says you’re a horrible old man,” Merry said again.

“Tell him to shut his mouth,” said Gandalf.

“Gandalf says, shut your mouth,” said Merry.

“Tell him I will not,” said Pippin, cradling Windflower in both hands. “And then tell him he has a face like an old kipper.”

“Pippin says –”

“Frog!” cried Gandalf, pointing at Pippin. “I mean it!” Pippin barked out a laugh. “Don’t you test me!”

“Frog,” gasped Pippin, and laughed still harder. Then his face twisted and he clutched at his ribs, and abruptly he was quiet. “Ow.”

“Careful,” said Merry, darting to his side.

“I’m alright,” said Pippin, batting Merry’s hands away from him. “I’m alright. Stop making me laugh,” he said to Gandalf. “Ow.”

“Go easy,” said Merry.

“Did you bring it?” said Pippin. “You better have.”

Merry smiled a wry smile, and dug in his pockets. “There,” he said, dropping the pouch into Pippin’s lap. “Smoke yourself silly. How you got through the last lot so quick I’ll never understand.”

“It soothes me, Merry, it soothes me,” Pippin drawled, reaching for his pipe. Filling it, he said, “how were they?”

With a sigh, Merry climbed up onto the bed. “The same,” he said, and ran a hand over Pippin’s hair.

“Wish I could go and see them whenever I liked,” said Pippin. He lit his pipe, and leaning back against the pillows began to smoke without about as much relish as Gandalf had seen anyone do anything.

There had been so many dead, that final day. It was only good fortune that had saved Peregrin Took from being another body upon the field, and he knew it. He had that particular glow about him, that joy in the simply act of being alive, that mortals found only in staring death in the face – and looking away.

“You want some?” piped up Windflower from Pippin’s knee.

“Saruman’s best,” Merry added.

“Not today,” said Gandalf. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dæmons in this chapter:
> 
> **Pippin and Windflower:** [blue tit](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eurasian_blue_tit#/media/File:Eurasian_blue_tit_Lancashire.jpg).  
>  **Merry and Celandine ("Grumpy"):** [red fox](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Fox_-_British_Wildlife_Centre_\(17429406401\).jpg).


End file.
